


home with you

by byesexualniall



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 05:04:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16612451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byesexualniall/pseuds/byesexualniall
Summary: The one where Niall and Harry get snowed in together on American Thanksgiving. Take a wild guess.Lots of words, not a ton of plot, still cute tho.--“Are you lonely?”It’s always been like this, the way Harry can ask a question that Niall doesn’t want to answer—a question that would normally cause him to shut down immediately—like it’s nothing. And the way Niall will always feel compelled to answer when Harry asks, even if the question would make him run for the hills coming from anyone else. So when Harry asks if he’s lonely, Niall answers. Even though the question would make his stomach churn coming from anyone else.





	home with you

**Day One.**

Everything was, in typical Niall fashion, perfectly planned, perfectly far in advance. His tickets were booked by the end of September, his house sitter booked by the start of November, his bags packed the week before, his bank alerted to his travel plans two days in advance, himself checked into his flight as soon as the option opened up 24 hours prior to takeoff. It was all perfectly planned—aside from the weather.

Niall, for all his meticulous travel planning, can’t do much about the snowstorm that hits New York on the Tuesday before American Thanksgiving. He can swear at the sky, maybe, and look half-heartedly into how possible it would be to charter a boat back home to Ireland, but he can’t make the snow stop falling. And, to make matters worse, he absolutely cannot do a single fucking thing about the snow falling back home, where most of the Emerald Isle is seeing its worst snowstorm, whiteout conditions and all, in well over a decade.

Niall’s at the mercy of the universe and right now he’s pretty sure she’s not on his side. 

When he gets an email bright and early on Wednesday morning that his flight for that night is cancelled, he knows it’s hopeless. The Wednesday before Thanksgiving is the busiest travel day of the year—he’s read that statistic a million times—and there’s no way he can get himself on a flight home at this point, no matter how much money he has to spend. With snow still falling in New York and Dublin, he’s not even sure there’ll be any flights for him to buy his way onto today, anyway. 

And it’s not like getting home on Thursday is required. It’s just. American Thanksgiving has always depressed Niall, in a way, made him feel empty and cold and out of place, reminded him that America, no matter how many houses he buys in it, will never really be his home. He’s got cousins in New York who he could celebrate the holiday with, sure, but it’s not the same, like. Seeing all his American friends posting Snapchat and Instagram stories makes him sad, the way they’re all laughing around a table, playing with new holiday themed face filters, tossing American footballs in crisp backyards, documenting the slow but steady way their cheeks get redder with alcohol and warmth as the night goes on. American Thanksgiving makes Niall miss his family more than any other holiday and this year he was determined to be home for it, even if it’s just a regular Thursday in Mullingar; he’d rather spend the day milling about at his dad’s house than milling about alone in New York.

But now he’s stranded. In a penthouse apartment in the West Village, granted, but he’s still stranded. And he doesn’t like being stranded.

It’s stupid, really, because Niall loves being laid up on a weekend more than anyone he knows. He cherishes the idea of it, of waking up late, only moving between the couch and the fridge, watching hours of football and Liam Neeson movies and not doing a single productive thing all day; it’s a dream come true for Niall after years of constantly being on the go, of having no time to rest. But as soon as it is enforced upon him—be it from crappy weather or rowdy fans outside a hotel—a lazy day feels more like a very specific form of torture than a dream come true.

And that’s how Niall Horan ends up lying on his back in the middle of the floor on Wednesday afternoon, one day before American Thanksgiving, staring up at the high ceilings of his brand new New York apartment. He’d turned off the TV an hour ago, sick to death of hearing constant chatter about the bloody storm, and hasn’t bothered to turn it back on since. He can hear distant, muffled sounds of sirens, horns, and dogs barking twenty floors below, and that’s it. Even his brain feels blank, white as the sky outside his window, twisting and twirling with beautiful, angry snow.

Nothing.

He’ll have to eat at some point, he supposes. And he might as well get something to look forward to tomorrow—maybe buy a steak to cook up, some potatoes, too, he’s not a big turkey fan—so he knows he’ll have to go outside at some point. But the thought of braving the snow and the wind and the reality that he’s stuck here makes Niall’s limbs feel like they each weigh 1,000 pounds, so he doesn’t move. The ceiling is starting to look like it has patterns, anyway, and it’s providing just the right kind of mind numbing entertainment.

When Niall eventually does decide that he needs to brave the outdoors, it’s because his stomach has started grumbling in a painful way, like it’s yelling at him to give it something, anything, to digest. All that’s left in the apartment is half a sleeve of Ritz crackers, so he inhales those, spilling crumbs all over the counter, before he bundles up and heads outside.

He overheats in the small space of the elevator a little bit, what with his tshirt, jumper, puffy coat, thick scarf, beanie, and gloves; even the lobby of his building is a little too warm with all that clothing on. But Niall finds himself entirely thankful for the fact that he has a home and a coat and a hat when the doorman opens the front door for him and he steps out into the street.

Niall has always preferred warmer weather, but, at the same time, he’s always found snow beautiful, so long as he’s watching it from somewhere warm. Usually, he can last just about five minutes in the cold and snow before he starts complaining; today, he only makes it a nanosecond.

It’s bloody freezing out, and everything is white, to the point where he can barely see, wishes he’d brought a pair of sunglasses. To make matters worse, the wind is gale force, nearly blowing him over, whipping the cold, wet snow into his face. It’s up past his ankles on the ground, and Niall realizes he forgot to put on snow boots—his canvas boots, the one he wore on stage almost every day his past tour, are soaked through already. This couldn’t possibly be worse, he thinks to himself, trudging to D’Ags, the grocery store down the block.

A trip down to D’Ags usually takes Niall four minutes tops, but today, snow in his eyes, his hair, his socks, wind blowing him over with every step, it takes him closer to 15. He’s never been more grateful for a grocery store in his life than when the automatic doors slide open in front of him at D’Ags. The place is abandoned, unsurprisingly, and Niall gets his shopping done quickly, stocking up on food, too many snacks, and way too much beer all to the backing track of D’Ags usual, comforting playlist of early 2000s smooth pop.

Getting back home with the groceries is so much of a feat that Niall mildly considers, just for a second, calling a car. But he doesn’t want to put a driver in danger, and he’s not sure he can deal with the embarrassment of calling a car to take him literally down the block, so he sucks it up, shoulders two bags of groceries, and nearly drags a third through the snow. It takes him twenty minutes to get back to his building.

The doorman asks Niall if it’s as bad as it looks out there as he waits for the elevator; Niall says it’s even worse. He clambers into the lift when the doors finally open, barely able to feel his toes anymore, and bounces on the balls of his feet all the way up to his apartment.

Niall’s apartment, being the penthouse, is the only one on the twentieth floor; in fact, he needs a key card to even get up to the twentieth floor, and only he, building facilities, and one other person have that card. So when he gets upstairs and finds the door to his apartment unlocked, he doesn’t panic. Maybe he forgot to lock it? If he did, there’s no way anyone else could have gotten in. No one except—

Harry’s wandering out of the bathroom just as Niall lets himself in. He almost drops the groceries on the floor.

“I’d hoped you’d gone to get some more food,” is how Harry greets him, hair pulled back into a bun, grey joggers slung low on his hips. Somehow, he still manages to look chic in loungewear. “There’s nothing to eat ‘round here.”

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

Harry takes one of the bags of groceries from Niall, scrunching up his face as he totes it over to the kitchen. The bag is sopping wet. “Don’t you have reusable bags, Niall? Plastic is killing the Earth.”

“Earth’s already dead,” says Niall. Side by side, he and Harry unpack the groceries and put them away. Niall leaves a bag of chips out on the counter to eat. “What are you doing here?”

“The power went out at my place,” explains Harry, a chip already in his mouth, and, oh, that makes a lot of sense, actually. “Didn’t you buy any vegetables?”

“No. It’s Thanksgiving, and I plan on eating like it.”

“I don’t see a turkey.”

“Don’t like turkey, bought steak instead.” Niall finishes putting the last of the groceries away, then turns around and leans back against the fridge. Harry’s sitting on the island: cozy socks, grey joggers, black jumper that Niall’s sure cost more than his iPhone, hair in a bun, eyes bright and green, lips red as ever. He looks fit as fuck.

“You gonna stare at me forever, Niall?”

Niall considers doing exactly that just to spite Harry, but his selfishness gets the better of him and he pushes himself upright, wanders over to the island, slots himself between Harry’s legs, and pulls him down for a kiss. They’ve both been busy, Harry’s been out of town, and it’s been too long since they’ve done this.

“Your lips are freezing!” Harry pulls away after just a second, not nearly long enough, and Niall starts whining. He tries to pull Harry back down by the collar, but it’s hopeless—Harry’s noticed that Niall’s soaking wet, even though Niall himself had forgotten about his frostbitten toes.

“Oh my God,” says Harry. “Why didn’t you say anything? Niall!” He hops down off the counter, pulling Niall in close for a hug.

Niall, suddenly remembering how cold his feet are and how wet his hair is, makes a huffing noise where his face is smashed against Harry’s shoulder. “What’re you doing?” he asks into his sweater. It’s warm and soft and smells like Harry and his dumb organic fabric softener.

“Warming you up with my body heat,” Harry offers, rubbing his hands up and down Niall’s back. It’s working, like, but Niall feels a bit suffocated.

“Aren’t you meant to be naked?” He figures it’s worth trying his luck. “When someone gets hypothermia, you strip. Skin to skin contact warms you up faster, like.”

He feels Harry laugh, feels his body vibrate as he says, “Nice try, Nialler. You need to change.” He slides his big, warm hand up under Niall’s shirt for a second anyway.

Harry ushers Niall into the bathroom, where he runs the water, one hand under the tap to check the temperature, the other reaching for the shelf where he’s left a variety of bath bombs and bubble bars. They’re stupid, the kind of thing Niall would never buy on his own but loves to keep around because they remind him of Harry, remind him that Harry really is here sometimes, that Harry comes in and out of his home, his bed, his life, like a recurring character on FRIENDS.

Niall, teeth chattering a little, watches in silence as Harry runs his bath. He looks so good today, Niall thinks, especially with the white, late afternoon sun coming in through the bathroom windows and flitting over his tattoos. His hair looks almost carmel in this light, and, God, it’s been two weeks, too long, long since Niall’s seen him.

He tells himself he bought this apartment in New York because he spends a lot of time here as it is. He’s got cousins nearby, a recording studio he really loves downtown, his manager’s based here, it’s less of a time difference to Ireland than LA is. He tells himself he’s got plenty of logical reasons to have moved part time to New York, and none of them have to do with Harry’s apartment five blocks away. None of them have anything to do with this weird thing that’s developed between the two of them, the kissing and the fucking and the hanging out for no real reason other than to be around each other. His new apartment is in no way an effort to spend more time around Harry, to get as much  _ Harry  _ as he possibly can without making it weird, without asking the uncomfortable questions, without trying to define the relationship. He didn’t buy an apartment in New York because he can’t stop thinking about Harry, or because he’s anxious that if he goes away for too long Harry will find someone else to fuck senseless most nights. No. He bought it because his cousins live nearby and he’d always dreamt of living in New York one day. And that's the truth.

“Ready?” Asks Harry. He’s stepping up and away from the bathtub, which is nearly overflowing with pink bubbles. It smells like cotton candy and sweet fruit. Niall doesn’t know how to ask, but he wants Harry to get in it with him.

“Which one did you use?” He asks instead.

Harry watches, doesn’t even pretend to look away, while Niall strips. He feels better immediately, dropping his cold, wet socks onto the bathroom floor, knowing that Harry’s eyes are trained on him as he walks, naked, over to the tub and lowers himself in. The water is the perfect temperature, surprise surprise, and Niall can’t help the soft moan that escapes his lips as he settles into it, lets his body temperature begin to regulate.

“I used the Lush Comforter. S’ my second favorite. Good?” Harry asks, even though he knows the answer; Niall knows he likes the praise.

“Brilliant,” says Niall, and watches through lidded eyes as Harry’s smile stretches, dimples deepening. He could fall asleep here, might, honestly, it feels so good. So good.

\--

When Niall wakes up, he’s still in the bathtub. His neck hurts a little bit from the way he’s been leaning back against the tub and the late afternoon light is waning, the bathroom much darker than it was before he dozed off. He can still see the snow falling outside, piling higher and higher on the roof of the building across from the window. Harry is sitting on the bathroom floor, legs straddled, leaning over, reading a book. He’s lit a couple candles, too, making the bathroom smell like vanilla and a Christmas tree.

Niall’s heart weighs a thousand pounds and feels like it’s flying all at once.

“Morning, sunshine,” Harry looks up from his book with a quiet smile; he must’ve heard Niall moving around as he woke up.

Niall gives a sort of  _ harumpf  _ sound in response, and Harry giggles. He rubs his eyes, realizes the water’s gone cold and the bubbles have all dissipated, and frowns. Harry’s still giggling from his spot on the floor.

“Do you feel better now? Warm?”

“Yeah,” Niall’s voice is rough with sleep, lower than usual and echoing in the bathroom. “What’re you reading?”

“It’s a murder mystery,” says Harry, holding the book up so Niall can see the cover. He’s too distracted by Harry in the candlelight to look at anything else, though.

“You’re not gonna murder me, are you?”

“Nah,” Harry shuts the book and stands up, strands of hair falling loose around his face. “Only if you make me sit on this floor for any longer.”

“You didn’t have to stay,” Niall offers, but it comes out weak—he’s glad Harry did.

“What, and leave you to drown in your sleep?” Harry watches as Niall stands up from the tub, eyes trailing down his body, no shame, no remorse. It makes Niall feel good, knowing that Harry likes to look at him almost as much as he likes to look at Harry—but, then again, Niall thinks, no one on planet Earth likes looking at any other person as much as Niall Horan likes looking at Harry Styles.

Harry’s put the towel heater on, so when Niall wraps himself up in one he feels almost too warm, but he doesn’t say anything. Anything he might’ve said gets lost in his throat anyway when Harry wanders over for a kiss, humming softly against Niall’s lips as they snog, just for a moment, in the darkening bathroom.

“How long was I asleep for?” Niall asks when Harry pulls away, bumping his nose against Niall’s gently.

“An hour, maybe,” Harry presses a few kisses to Niall’s face, then steps away. “It’s nearly dinnertime.”

“Ah, I should’ve known. You only came over to eat my food.” Niall can’t help the way he’s beaming at Harry. He hopes Harry doesn’t think too much of it.

“Obviously,” is Harry’s response. “I went and got you some warm clothes while you were sleeping,” he gestures to the counter by the sink where he’d left a pile of clothes: a sweatshirt, his favorite joggers, some socks. Somehow, Niall’d missed them before.

“Cheers,” says Niall, swallowing a lump in his throat.

“S’nothing,” says Harry. “I’m going to go make some tea.”

And then he’s gone. And Niall’s alone in the bathroom, almost completely dark now save for the candles flickering on the counter, wishing Harry’d stayed to watch him change.

\--

Dressed and warm, Niall finds Harry in the kitchen again. He’s leaning up against the counter, two steaming mugs of tea in front of him, nose still buried in that book. He’s put a fire on, too, in the fireplace, and Niall can’t help but think it feels a little more like Christmas than Thanksgiving tonight.

“Didn’t bother to make us dinner?” Niall asks. One of the cups of tea on the counter is black, the other with milk. Niall takes the one with milk; Harry knows he likes it that way.

“You haven’t got a single vegetable in your entire house,” Harry barely looks up from his book, but Niall can see him smiling behind it. “And no, before you say anything, onions and potatoes do not count. How am I supposed to make a meal without any vegetables?”

“Don’t whine,” Niall cradles the mug in his hands, then maneuvers around Harry to start making something; he bought pasta, earlier, maybe he’ll make some of that, or eggs and tomatoes, he could make a shakshuka.

“Would you make yourself useful and dice an onion?” He asks. Harry rolls his eyes, but marks his place in his book and gets to work.

\--

An hour later and they’ve devoured the shakshuka (“the best meal you’ve ever made, Niall, I mean it,” says Harry) and a few too many drinks. The sun has fully set but the snow is still falling, maybe even harder than before, and Niall’s living room is lit up by the fireplace and the soft light from his TV. Some channel is doing a marathon of FRIENDS Thanksgiving episodes, Harry’s nearly doubled over with laughter, and Niall thinks he’s never felt quite this good in his entire life.

They sit there like that, Harry’s feet in Niall’s lap, Niall’s thumb rubbing Harry’s calf, for so many episodes of FRIENDS that Niall starts to feel his brain turn to mush. They eat cold, leftover shakshuka, they open up a box of Oreos, they drink too much beer, Harry doesn’t complain about vegetables once. They don’t move, for hours, until Harry, voice rough with tiredness, asks, “what time is it?”

Niall taps his phone screen, squinting at the display, far too bright in his dark apartment. “Holy shit,” he says, “it’s nearly midnight.”

“Oh my God. We’ve been sat here for like five hours.”

“I know.”

“We’re lazy fucks,” Harry says. “We never would’ve done this shit back in the day.”

“Not like we had time.”

“I think we’re getting old, Niall.”

“Mm. Probably. Especially considering I’m fucking knackered and it’s only midnight.”

“Me too,” Harry stretches his arms up over his head as he yawns, giving Niall a tantalizing view of his lower stomach when his shirt rides up. He nearly salivates, honestly—for all this talk about getting old, he’s acting like a horny 14 year old boy.

Here’s the thing about Niall and Harry: they kiss, they fuck, they cuddle and watch movies and laugh and lounge in bed and love every second they spend together, but they never, ever sleep in the same bed. They never spend the night together. They never wake up next to each other. That’s the line they don’t cross, the indication that they’ve taken this thing—whatever it is—one step too far. And God forbid they take it too far.

But it’s  _ still  _ snowing outside. And it’s dark. And the wind is whipping against Niall’s windows, loud and threatening, and Niall’s apartment is warm and dry and smells like fireplace and what if the power is still out at Harry’s? There’s no way he can leave. Not like this. Not when the alternative is curling up next to Niall in bed.

“Do you, erm, do you think the power’s still out over at yours?” Niall asks, nervous.

Unsurprisingly, Harry’s on the same wavelength. “Probably,” he says, eyes trained on the window, late night snow illuminated golden-yellow from the street lamps. “It’s still really coming down out there.”

“You shouldn’t go out when it’s like that.” 

“I could call a car?” Harry’s offer is weak. Neither of them want that.

“Don’t be daft. That’s dangerous. Stay.”

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Niall.” Harry leans over and presses a gentle kiss to Niall’s lips. He tastes like beer and Niall wants it to last forever. “Do you have some pillows and blankets I could use out here?”

“Now you’re really being a twat,” Niall swallows a lump in his throat, tries to keep his voice light, playful. “I have a perfectly good bed. King sized. You take the bed and I’ll sleep out here on the couch.”

“Niall.”

“Stop fighting me, this is stupid. Come here,” and he pulls Harry in for a kiss, parting his lips, sliding his hands up Harry’s jumper, and squeezing a little at his love handles. Niall worships those love handles; Harry moans into his mouth.

\--

It’s been two weeks. It’s been so long. They practically devour each other. So long, so long.

\--

“Fuck,” Harry breathes out as he collapses on top of Niall, skin searing hot and sticky with sweat, the entire room stuffy with body heat and Niall doesn’t care, doesn’t mind that he can barely breathe, doesn’t feel his claustrophobia acting up, wishes this would never end.

He hums an agreement into Harry’s shoulder, pressing a soft kiss there as he does. “You’re so good, Haz.”

Niall can see Harry blushing where is face is hidden under hair and pressed against his skin. He wishes he could bottle it up and save it for when Harry’s gone. Even the couch feels too far away.

“Only ‘cause its you,” Harry murmurs, and Niall’s not sure he was supposed to hear that. It makes his stomach flip upside down.

They lay there in silence for a minute, Niall gently scratching up and down Harry’s naked back, until he sighs and says, “not sure my legs work anymore after all that… I should head out to the couch, though.”

Harry doesn’t answer though. In fact, he doesn't move at all; his breathing is even and slow, his body is a dead weight on top of Niall’s, and—oh, he’s fast asleep. He’s fast asleep and Niall is pinned underneath him and moving would just wake him up and he looks so peaceful that it would be a crime to wake him up, right? Niall can just stay right here and fall asleep underneath him and it’ll be okay, in the morning, because he can just explain that he didn’t want to wake Harry up. It’ll be fine, he’s not crossing their unspoken line, he’s just being a considerate friend.

And if he presses a gentle kiss to Harry’s shoulder before drifting off to sleep himself, well, Harry doesn’t have to know.

And if Harry’s still awake, if he waits until he’s sure Niall has fallen asleep to roll off his body and curl up against his side and press a kiss to his jaw, well, Niall doesn’t have to know either.

**Day Two.**

Niall wakes up early because they forgot to close the shades last night. The snow is somehow still falling and the sun is almost impossibly bright streaming through the bare window; Niall would be angry about it, but he can’t manage to hold a grudge against the sun for waking him up early enough to admire Harry’s sleeping form next to him.

Harry. He’s curled up against Niall’s side, pressed close, skin sticking to skin even though Niall’s bed is big enough for them both to fully sprawl out without touching. Niall thinks he must’ve rolled off him at some point last night, swallows the way his heart jumps when he thinks about how Harry didn’t get up to sleep on the couch in the middle of the night.

With the sun streaming in through the window, Niall’s sure Harry looks something like an angel. The falling snow makes the sunlight flicker; it’s got a subtle, filtered quality to it, too, so that sometimes it looks blue, sometimes it’s bright white, and sometimes it’s almost grey. It makes Harry look like a beautiful dream, except for the fact that he’s real, asleep in Niall’s bed, safe and warm despite the weather outside, lips parted, hair falling into his eyes, and Niall’s sure he never wants Harry to leave. He’ll go cut the power line at Harry’s apartment every day for the rest of forever if it means more of this.

He thinks about sneaking out of bed to make them tea and breakfast and to catch the beginning of the Parade, assuming the bad weather hasn’t forced it into cancellation, but Niall can’t justify getting out of bed on the best of days, let alone when Harry is curled up next to him. So he waits, takes advantage of the fact that he can stare at Harry without feeling too weird, and just tries to relax, tries, for once, to not let his brain run wild, to not think about the entire trajectory of his life, not to wonder what’ll happen when Harry inevitably gets some new model girlfriend and forgets about how good it felt to be with Niall. He tries so hard not to think about it, but it’s almost impossible not to, really—Niall often finds himself thinking about Harry with the models, the way they’re so skinny and leggy and smooth and perfect, all long hair and flawless skin and luxurious satin and gentle laughs, while he’s a little too short, a wonky knee with an ugly scar, stubbly jaw, jarring laugh, more zits than he should have at 25. Of course Harry’s going to find another model girlfriend and leave him in the aftermath. It’s just a matter of how much longer he has.

“What’re you staring at?” Harry’s voice is thick with sleep and Niall actually jumps, as if Harry could hear what he was thinking. He hopes to God he hasn’t been speaking out loud to himself again.

“Nothin’. I—nothing. Good morning.” Niall doesn’t even have to try to plaster a smile onto his face, not with the way sleepy Harry is looking up at him with tired eyes, cheeks red from the heat in the room, lips plush, skin warm.

“Morning. S’it still snowing?” Harry snuggles a little further into Niall’s side. Niall’s heart wins the gold medal for Olympic gymnastics in his chest.

“Yeah,” Niall manages to keep his voice even, thinks idly that he deserves an Oscar for that.

“I wonder if the Parade’s been cancelled,” Harry muses. His lips are brushing against Niall’s skin every time he speaks.

"I was just thinking that,” Niall admits, and he feels Harry smile.

“That’s why we work so well together, Niall,” he says, still sounding sleepy. “Same wavelength. Turn it on,” Harry gropes around blindly for the remote, Niall laughs through his hammering heart.

“It’s on the bedside table, ya knob,” says Niall. He has to move away from Harry to reach the remote and, as pathetic as it sounds, it breaks his heart. He wants to get back to Harry as quickly as possible, even if he’s only leaning away from him for ten seconds to grab something. He could kick himself, but. He’d rather just get back to Harry.

Harry clearly has no intention of exerting any effort, so Niall flicks on NBC and finds the parade. It’s definitely happening—some choir of kids on a float is singing about friendship or something, bundled up in coats and scarves and adorable little bobble hats, and the hosts of the Today Show are talking over them, screaming about the weather and whatever company is sponsoring the choir. It almost immediately gives Niall a headache, but Harry’s already singing along to the stupid friendship song, so Niall leaves it be and zones out a little bit, rubbing his hand up and down Harry’s back as they watch. If Niall died right now, he wouldn’t complain.

Niall half watches the parade, half watches Harry until his stomach starts to grumble and all at once his need to eat eclipses his need to be next to Harry and he hears himself saying “gonna make us some breakfast, Haz, what do you want?”

“Mm. Whatever you make,” says Harry, still captivated by the parade. Niall has a momentary flash of Harry with their future children, cuddled up in bed on Thanksgiving morning, all equally captivated by the magic of the parade, wide eyes and curly hair, before he snaps himself the fuck out of it.

He says, “kay,” then drops a kiss on the top of Harry’s head before throwing on some joggers and a sweatshirt and heading into the kitchen to satiate his stomach.

\--

“You missed Father Christmas,” says Harry, padding into the kitchen in his sweatpants and one of Niall’s jumpers. He’s wearing Niall’s socks, too. Niall’s heart is suddenly in his throat.

“What? Think you’ve got your holidays mixed up, mate,” Niall hands Harry a warm mug of tea. Harry leans down for a kiss.

“No I haven’t. He comes at the end of the Parade every year. On a big sleigh and everything.”

“Comes, does he?” Niall raises an eyebrow and Harry rolls his eyes over his mug, raised to his lips, covering most of his mouth. Niall’s pretty sure he can see the edge of Harry’s smirk, though.

“You’re disgusting, Niall. Shameful,” but Harry says it so low, so slow, so  _ deliberate  _ that the sound of it goes straight to Niall’s crotch. Harry catches on immediately, bursts into laughter and nearly drops his mug right on the fancy heated floor in Niall’s kitchen. “Shut up,” he says through laughter, “that did  _ not  _ work on you, did it? Niall—Niall, you do not have a boner right now, do you?! Oh my God, you should be ashamed of yourself. You’re getting hard over a conversation about  _ Santa _ ? You should be—” but he dissolves into breathless laughter before he can finish, leaving Niall feeling a bit foolish, a bit hard, but mostly endeared. He’s trying to choke back his own laugh, too, trying to focus on not spilling his tea, on keeping an eye on the mug slipping out of Harry’s hand, trying to do so many things at once that his brain doesn’t have time to stop him, it barely even registers when his thoughts slip out of his mouth and he says:

“I love you too much, you dipshit, not to get hard at every stupid ass thing you do.”

The mug does hit the floor, then. And Harry’s not laughing anymore.

Niall has one hand slapped over his mouth, as if he could take back the profession of love that’s been building for months now, and Harry’s stood across from him with wide eyes and messy hair and a shattered mug at his feet. This scene could be one of those Renaissance paintings, Niall thinks to himself for a moment.

“Shit,” he starts to say, because he knows he has to say something, but he’s not sure what, and cursing seems like a good place to start. “I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t—”

But Harry doesn’t let him finish. Instead he closes the gap between them, barely stepping over the shattered pieces of ceramic, and pulls Niall in by the waist, crashing their lips together with such haste that it actually hurts, for just one second.

The pain dissolves into pleasure when Harry licks into Niall’s mouth and slides his hands up under Niall’s sweatshirt. He kisses him like his life fucking depends on it, like he can’t breathe unless the air is coming from Niall, like he’s about to leave forever and never come back and wants to suck as much life and love out of Niall as he possibly can before he does, like this is the most important thing he’s ever done, the first thing he’s ever done, the last thing he’ll ever do. He kisses him and kisses him and kisses him until he can’t kiss him anymore, can’t possibly keep kissing him, and Niall’s lightheaded and Harry pulls back, bumps his nose against Niall’s, and says, “did that make you hard, too?”

“Shut  _ up _ ,” Niall rolls his eyes, somehow manages not to collapse, but he’s smiling. Beaming.

“It did, didn’t it? You love me too much,” The words sound like a joke, but Niall can tell from his tone that Harry isn’t kidding. His eyes are locked on Niall’s, boring into him, making it impossible to look anywhere else—as if he’d ever want to.

“Harry—”

“Is that why you got this apartment?”

“I—what?”

“This flat. Did you buy it because you want to be near me?”

There’s no point in denying it, so Niall doesn’t say anything.

“You shouldn’t’ve done that.”

“I—I know. I never should have said… I’m sorry, Harry, I know this was just—this whole thing we’re doing is nothing, it’s a bad idea, we’re both just lonely and—”

“I’m not lonely.”

“Huh?”

“I’m not lonely. If you think I spend time with you just because I’m lonely you’re even more oblivious than I thought.”

“Oh. Well, erm—”

“Are you lonely?”

It’s always been like this, the way Harry can ask a question that Niall doesn’t want to answer—a question that would normally cause him to shut down immediately—like it’s nothing. And the way Niall will always feel compelled to answer when Harry asks, even if the question would make him run for the hills coming from anyone else. So when Harry asks if he’s lonely, Niall answers. Even though the question would make his stomach churn coming from anyone else.

“Course I’m lonely,” Niall admits. “I mean, I’m enjoying this, the solo stuff, but sometimes it’s like… I look around and I’m like, fuck’s sake, where is everyone? Sitting alone in the dressing room, ya know, without Louis throwing a fit somewhere, without Liam on the phone, without you being a pain in the arse everywhere we go. It’s like… getting off the plane and not having to wait for you guys to make it to the gate—you know, how Louis is always the last one to get off the plane because he always loses his bloody headphones. It’s like, I can get off the plane and just… walk straight to the car. Alone. And I get to the hotel and unpack and then there’s nothing to do, you’re not banging on my door to go to the pool, Liam’s not coming round to talk schedules, Louis isn’t asking me to come to his room and watch a football match… ‘course I’m lonely, Harry. I have to answer questions all on me own in interviews—that’s rubbish. I miss you. You guys. You.”

“First things first,” says Harry, hands still on Niall’s sides, “you love it when I’m a pain in the arse.”

“Not  _ that  _ kind of a pain in the arse.”

“Second things second!” Harry ignores Niall, but smiles just enough for him to know he appreciated the joke—it’s kind of pathetic, Niall thinks, the way even that makes his heart soar. “I haven’t, like, gone anywhere, Niall. You have me. You don’t need to be lonely.”

“Come again?” It sounds like—

“Don’t be daft, Niall.”

“I’m not being daft! You’re being elusive. I hate it when you’re elusive.”

“I’m always elusive.”

“I  _ know _ . For once in your life, Harry, please, can you just actually say what you’re thinking?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Niall. Ever—as far as I can tell. I love you. I love  _ this _ ,” he gestures around the apartment, “I love us. When I’m away I can’t wait to come back and see you, when I’m here I never want to leave. I hate that we never sleep in the same bed even though we both want to, I hate that we’re fucking pretending this isn’t a thing when it’s definitely a thing, I hate that we haven’t told anyone about this yet, although I’m pretty sure Liam’s figured it out, I hate that you won’t fucking say what you’re feeling ever, I hate all of this situation except for you—I love you, Niall. And you shouldn't have bought this stupid apartment when you could just move into mine. With me. This is a waste of money. Can we just—can we take this seriously?”

“You think Liam’s figured it out?!” Niall’s head is going in so many directions at once, he barely even hears himself speak.

“ _ That’s  _ what you took from that? My romantic declaration of love, Niall, and you’re thinking about Liam?”

But Harry’s laughing, and Niall is too, and the snow is still falling and the streets are filling up with families heading out to play American football in the park despite the weather and the mug is broken but Niall has a million more, anyway, and Harry has a million mugs, too, and when they move in together they’ll have two million mugs, so one broken mug, even if it was one of those cool purple “The Late Late Show with James Corden” ones, doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. Nothing really matters in the grand scheme of things, Niall thinks, except for the fact that he’s at the mercy of the universe, and he’s pretty sure she’s on his side.

\--

By 3pm, Harry and Niall are elbow deep in their Thanksgiving Dinner For Two, sides done, steaks cooking, Harry on his third glass of wine and Niall with two beers and a whole lot of potato chips sloshing around in his stomach. There’s some American football game on the telly—it might even be the Packers, but Harry’s not paying attention—and they’re making out, Harry having pinned Niall up against the kitchen counter, hands up under his sweatshirt, hips flush, as they wait for the timer to tell them when the food’s ready. Niall, despite how fogged up his brain is with Harry and beer, can’t possibly imagine any scenario in the universe better than this one.

“Love you,” Harry says when he pulls away to breathe. “Love you, love you, love you, love you.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Niall’s eyes are crossed, trying to get a good look at Harry as he punctuates every declaration of love with a small kiss, “I love you too, you git.”

“Love you more,” Harry’s moved on to Niall’s neck now, sucking hickeys into the skin there, littered with freckles and birthmarks and now a few marks of Harry’s. Harry wishes he could frame it, somehow, the way Niall’s neck is a fucking work of art.

“Doubt it.”

“I do.”

Niall tangles a hair up in Harry’s curls, he swears they’re longer than they were yesterday, and lets his head fall back as Harry continues marking up his neck. He could die like this, he thinks, and he’d be happy about it. But then—he has a lifetime of this, of Harry and his mouth and his curls and his body and his thighs, fuck, his thighs, so maybe he shouldn’t die like this, because there’s so much more in store.

“What’re you thinking about?” Asks Harry, licking over a spot he’s just finished. “Tell me it’s not Liam.”

“Shut up about Liam” Niall laughs, Harry worships the way his Adam’s apple moves. “Just thinking about doing this for the rest of forever.”

“ _ Niall _ ,” Harry pulls back, a very serious look on his face. Niall worries for just a second, until, “you’ve got to  _ tell me  _ when you’re thinking about things like that. I want in on it, too.”

Niall laughs, but Harry’s still talking: “We’re gonna be doing this until we’re, like, two hundred, because I’m pretty sure science is catching up and by the time we’re one hundred people will be living to two hundred and we’ll live til two hundred and the entire time we’ll be fucking, like, from ages one hundred to two hundred we’ll just fuck—”

“Are you sure our two hundred year old bodies will be able to do that? I feel like we won’t have the stamina.”

“Yes, we will, because science, Niall. I gotta get you on a good diet, anyway, some more vegetables, so we can—”

“I eat plenty of vegetables.”

“Not enough. Not enough for a hundred straight years of fucking.”

“Nothing about the way we fuck is straight, Haz.”

“You know what I  _ mean _ ,” Harry bites at Niall’s neck, laughing a little. “You’re gonna have hickeys for two hundred years.”

“I’m meant to go see my mum and da soon, Haz, I can’t go with all these hickeys.”

“You can borrow one of my scarves. Besides, Bobby and Maura adore me. They’ll be absolutely delighted.”

“That’s true, they do love you. Not sure I want to explain to my mum why my neck looks like I got into a fight with a hoover, though.”

“I’m offended,” but he’s mouthing over Niall’s collarbones now, hands big and warm on Niall’s arse.

“No, you’re not. Anyway,” says Niall, trying to keep his wits about him while Harry works his magic, because if they miss the timer the steaks will burn and then the entire apartment complex will burn down, and Niall’s sure he can’t live with that headline on his conscience: Boybanders Cause Deadly Fire Because They Were Too Busy Playing With Each Other’s Dicks, “why did you say you think Liam knows? About us?”

“I thought you told me to stop talking about Liam.” Harry’s working his way down Niall’s chest now, and Niall can barely see straight anymore.

“Just wanna know. Were we that obvious?”

Harry gets the message and chills out, standing back up and pressing a quick kiss to Niall’s lips. He slides his hands up to rest on Niall’s hips, then, “I feel like Liam always calls me when I’m on my way out the door, like. And I don’t lie to him, you know he always finds out when people lie, so I tell the truth if I’m off to see you. And sometimes he calls while I’m here and I don’t answer… I think he’s put two and two together.”

Niall hums thoughtfully, running his fingers over Harry’s ship tattoo. “Suppose so. Should we tell them anyway, him and Louis?”

“Yeah, probably,” Harry doesn’t even hesitate, “I love you and I want to share that with them. Besides, it’ll be an important factor for them to know when we start doing 1D stuff again.”

“Yeah,” Niall’s smiling like a third grader at Disney World. He doesn’t even care. “It will be.”

\--

It finally stops snowing by 6pm. Niall and Harry are done eating, curled up next to each other on the couch sharing a bottle of wine while the fire crackles. They’re half watching Mission Impossible, half making out, when Harry realizes.

“It’s stopped snowing,” he says, looking past the TV and out the window. It’s dark, but they can both tell there’s no more flurries falling. There must be feet of it on the ground now.

“Oh, wow,” Niall can’t deny the way his stomach tightens. “Do you, erm, want to head home?”

“No,” says Harry, no hesitation. “I wanna stay with you.”

####

**Author's Note:**

> hi! the fact that people were so kind and responsive to my last narry fic really pushed me to write and post this one! i hope you like it and that this is not a sophomore slump! thank you so so much :) 
> 
> if you want to talk narry or niall or harry or whatever, you can find me on tumblr @jinglebellhoran


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